Of Cyan and Life (Lessica birthday story.)

Lessica grinned.

It seems like ages since she's done so, but she smiles as she runs her fingers through her freshly cyan-blue hair.  The color is bright, bold, and sharp against her milky skin, like a proof of life, a proof of joy. Like a drop of summer sky daring to exist in the cold, colorless halls of Amandil’s Court.

The Queen will hate it. Her mother even more. 

The dye arrived this morning, just in time. Nicely packed. A gift from Ashlyen, carefully wrapped in a handwritten note. 

“For the boldest of us.”

Closing the cap on the now-empty bottle, Lessica stands up and slides towards the mirror. Lyra, curled up in the hollow of her shoulder, gently rubbed her muzzle against her cheek. 

The young elf smiled, amused by the almost shocked look her reflection gave her. Yet it was her, all of her. In flesh and blood, in light and life. 

Maybe it hadn't been an eternity since her last smile, alright. She'd smiled as she read his words, her heart filling with gratitude. He'd understood. He always had. 

Her mother, however, did not.

A certainty the young elf had acquired over the years, and which was confirmed once again today as Marwenya pushed open the heavy doors to her bedroom. Her mother entered, poised and statuesque, wrapped in pearl-hued silk, her tiara catching the light like ice. Her gaze skimmed over her daughter, then stopped short. A fleeting grimace distorted her features for a second before disappearing. 

"Lessica, what have you done to your hair?" The cold disapproval in her mother's voice was sharper than any blade.

Lessica turned from the mirror, lifting her chin. “I changed it. For my birthday. I like it. Don’t you?”

"I do not, nor the Queen will!" Her mother steps forward. "You defile yourself. Like a common outcast. Do you have any idea what people will say?"

“Unlike you, Mother, I do not care what people think of me.” She replied. "Let them think."

Inhaling deeply, her mother clasped her hands together in front of her. the motion as composed as it was rehearsed. “And could I, at least, know who put that colorful idea in your head.”

“I think for myself,” Lessica replied. “But if you really want to know, the dye came to me from Ashlyen, in the form of a gift.”

The name hit like a spark to dry wood.

Her mother's lips curled ever so slightly. “That troublemaker...” she growled coldly. “Of course. I should have seen it coming, even from a distance, he can't help but create chaos.”

Lessica's eyes crinkled, a flash of anger infusing them as Lyra began to hiss. “He's not a troublemaker. He's brave, fights for what's right, says what he thinks, even when everyone else is too scared to.”

“Oh, please!”

“He's a role model, someone worth following!”

“Quiet!”

Her mother’s expression didn’t flicker. She took a single step forward, letting her silence speak louder than any retort. Then, with a practiced calm that cut more deeply than rage ever could, she said:

“That may be. Or it may simply be that he’s reckless. But that’s not what we’re discussing.”

She gestured toward Lessica’s reflection in the mirror with a slight tilt of her head. “Remove that color from your hair. Now. Before the banquet.”

“I wouldn't do it.”

“So this is how you plan to present yourself at the banquet? In front of the Court? In front of Her Majesty?"

“Yes.”

“Veolia, oh goddess, give me forbearance,” her mother breathed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You can't possibly be that oblivious!”

Embarrassed warmth erupted in the young elf's cheeks at the accusation. 

“I'm not-”

“You're a Silaren! " Her mother cut her. "There are expectations—"

"Expectations that I never agreed to!" Lessica’s voice rose. "Why does it matter so much what others think? Why does it matter to you? "

For a fleeting moment, something like pain flickered across her mother’s face, but it was gone too quickly for Lessica to grasp. "You don’t understand, child. Everything I do is to protect this family."

"No, Mother. Everything you do is to please Amandil."

The words landed like a blow. Hard, icy!

Her mother froze.

Then, without warning, her hand closed around her daughter's throat.

A strangled gasp escaped the young elf. Her body arched instinctively, panic flooding her senses. Lyra shrieked, her little white form pulsing with alarm, mirroring the fear hammering in Lessica’s chest and mind.

“Silence! "

Not said, but thought. Her mother's order froze her to the core. Like a dagger piercing through the Hive. 

No, not her mother, that couldn't be. The fury in her pupils betrayed another being.

Although silent, the order had been imposed. Not just against her voice, but against her will. For one dreadful second, Lessica found herself incapacitated. Unable to move, unable to think. The Hive screamed around her, and she felt herself sinking into it. Vanishing like dust in the wind under the weight of a thought word. 

But she wasn't alone. Never.

Lyra dived, her scales glinting in the twilight as her fangs sank into the flesh that held them captive. Her mother shrieked and withdrew. Blood blossomed where Lyra bit, dark and vivid against the pale silk of her sleeve.

Lessica coughed and stumbled away, hand to her throat, tears welling from shock and shame. The burning imprint of her mother’s grip still tingled on her skin.

She’d crossed a line.

And so had her mother.

Neither of them moved. 

Frozen together. And yet so far from each other. Her mother still had one hand up, the other gripping her bloody wrist. Silk stained and sticking to her skin. Her mouth parted as if to speak, but no sound came.

Lessica's chest heaved with every breath, her throat raw. She didn't trust her legs to hold out much longer, but her eyes remained fixed on the person in front of her - neither the queen's envoy, nor the noble Silaren - just the one who had once tucked her into bed, whispering stardust stories.

Oh how far ago that seemed now. 

“I didn't mean to-” were her mother's first words. Fragile, broken, whispered. 

But she didn't finish. 

Something flickered behind her gaze. No fury, no shame or regret. But fear. Not for herself, but for her daughter. 

Her mother's fingers trembled as she lowered them to her side, then clenched them into a fist. The wound on her wrist throbbed, but she made no move to heal it.

“It wasn't me,” she murmured, not in apology, but as a truth that weighed too heavily.

“I know,” Lessica said in a voice made hoarse by the attack, though part of her didn't want to. 

The air was heavy between her, charged by the invisible presence of hundreds of others and even more by the one that reigned over them all. Lessica could still feel it in the corner of her mind. Amandil. Behind every whisper, every law, every silence. 

Her mother took a step forward, hesitating. Something was verging on supplication in her expression now. Something Lessica would dare call human. 

But the Queen's right-hand woman chose to let it die. 

“Go clean yourself,” she said flatly. “And put on something decent.”

Lessica blinked, dumbfounded. “After all this, do you think I'll still go?”

Her mother's jaw tightened.” You won't shame us any further. This family has already attracted too much attention. There are eyes on you.”

“And hands around my throat, apparently.” replied the young elf, bitingly.

A flinch. But again, silence.

Lessica's heart broke a little as she turned away. Not because she hadn't expected this, but because a part of her - stupid, stubborn - had hoped things would turn out differently. That the mother she remembered from before the court would resurface, if only for a moment.

But her mother was gone. Dead the day the Silaren was born. 

Without even giving her time to say goodbye and mourn. 

She took a step back towards the door, Lyra wrapped around her neck like a second skin, still bristling, but softer than her mother would ever be again. 

"Where are you going?” asked her mother, her voice barely audible.

Lessica looked over her shoulder, just once. “To someone who doesn't answer to the Hive.”

Then she started running.

The trees swallow her. Living giants whose every root, every rustle, every twist of breeze tugged at her frayed nerves. But she didn't slow down, her legs moving with the force of a bursting storm, free of the clouds at last. And when the path finally opens up on the shores of the lake, she doesn't hesitate either. 

She couldn't remember going through the palace gates, or even hearing the guards stop her. 

The corridors had been a fog. The marble walls, the crystals candelabras, and the gilded doors in front of which stood sentries in pearlescent armor. Lessica had passed them all. 

Behind her, the expectations, the weight of protocol. Behind her, the echo of her mother's silence. 

And ahead...

Lyra reaffirmed her grip on her collarbone. Protective. The pain in her throat was sharp now. As sharp as the sensation of nails scraping the back of her neck as she put her first foot in the boat to reach her father.  Moonlight shimmered across the lake’s surface as she reached the narrow bridge of woven stone and vines.

At the heart of the lake, the island awaited. For most elves, it's just a stretch of ivy-covered trees and stones. But Lessica knew the truth: this was the only place where she could still breathe. To be herself. 

The last place beyond Amandil's reach inside the elven territory. 

She didn't call.

She didn't need to.

Eryndäl was always at the edge of the clearing when she arrived, his blond hair untied and his clothes loose around his figure. And a white cloth tied in front of his eyes.

He tilted his head when she arrived as if sensing her trouble before she uttered a word.

“Lessica,” he greeted, his voice warm, like a summer breeze. “You're upset.”

“Father!”

She threw herself into his arms. The gentle flutter of her familiar azure butterfly's wings filled the space above their heads.  Her father's arms close around her, like the answer to a prayer, a poultice against her battered skin.  Warm and solid. Home. Home at last. 

At last, she gives in, and tears soak his clothes, her body trembling against his chest. 

“Shh,” he murmurs, stroking her hair. “You're safe, I'm here.”

Lyra curled protectively around their shoulders, her eyes never leaving Eryndäl. And yet, she didn't strike this time. She knew this elf. Trusted him.

When she finally pulled away, her voice cracked, barely audible, too fragile for someone her age.  "She hates it. My hair. She thinks I’ve shamed us." she chooses to share. Silencing the most terrifying of truths so as not to overwhelm him. 

His hand rose slowly, brow furrowed. 

Lessica guided his fingers to a lock of her long hair, and he hummed thoughtfully. "Cyan, is it?"

"Yes."

"Bold choice," he mused. "Fitting."

The tightness in her chest loosened slightly. "You don’t mind?"

"Mind?" He smiled, amused, tracing a careful path down the strands. "Lessica, you are my daughter. Your spirit is as vibrant as your hair now. Never let anyone dull that. Ever."

Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away, resting her forehead against his shoulder. "Thank you, Father."

His hand settled gently atop her head. "Happy birthday."